


Heavy Things

by somekindofseizure



Series: WTID Supplemental Reading [22]
Category: The Fall (TV 2013), The X-Files
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 09:53:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15794103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somekindofseizure/pseuds/somekindofseizure
Summary: Anonymous asked: can you confirm or deny that scully never lets stella carry The Heavy Thing (i.e. the grocery bag with the milk, *both* suitcases through the airport, etc.)





	Heavy Things

“Give it to me,” Scully says and Stella smirks, wishes she was hearing this phrase another context. There’s a case of her favorite red wine at her feet, a bead of sweat running down her otherwise dry arm from carrying it in. There are no chores left. It’s Saturday and Scully’s here and they are spending it having this ridiculous debate.

“I’m serious,” Scully insists, stubborn as a wedged cork. “Give me your hand.”

It started way back in front of the liquor store, continued when they got out of the car. Stella fiddles with her next bottle. Just the thought of a nice even pull on its neck, peeling the cylinder like a knife on apple skin gives her infinite patience for this conversation.

“I shouldn’t have gotten the whole case,” she mutters as she fills empty spaces in the wine rack. “I have nowhere to store the rest.”

“We’ll drink faster.”

“You mean I’ll drink faster and you’ll get sleepy, horny and tongue tied and not necessarily in that order.”

“Give me your arm, Stella. I want this settled once and for all.”

“Doesn’t need settling. My arms are stronger.” She hears Scully click her tongue, feels a chilled finger hook the back of her jeans and not for any of the reasons she would like it to be there doing that. She swats at her back. “Stop that.”

“You carry suitcases. Milk bottles. Wine cases. My twelve packs of Diet Coke. It’s annoying that you assume.”

“Some women would find that chivalrous.”

“I’m not one of them.”

“Dana, I swim. I do yoga. It makes sense.” 

Scully works out too, of course, but not like Stella does. Not six days a week. Not like her life depends on it, not like she’s circling herself like a jet, trying to burn up the fuel of three or four other addictions each powerful enough on their own to bring her down in a fiery crash. She does not make deals with those things on a daily basis on her feet and in the water and on her back and yes, balanced on her arms, just to let someone else carry the heavy object.

“It’s not an insult,” she says. “You’re stronger in other ways. Your thighs, probably.” 

Her mind lingers on this pleasant thought and she turns hopefully - foolishly hopeful as it turns out - to see the set of Scully’s jaw, the point of her upper lip stiffening against the bottom one, the color of her eyes unifying and settling with each dig of her heels. Her little pale hand is already up in the position, balanced on the point of her elbow, waiting, patience infinitely more infinite than Stella’s.

“Give me your hand,” she says, more quietly this time and Stella obeys, sighing. Skin meets skin and she considers letting Scully win – she knows that Scully is a very sore loser – their mutual grip tightens and then she remembers that she is one too.

It is no surprise that Scully’s a decent match for her, that their muscles each wiggle in near-equal resistance. But it’s a surprise when her bicep starts to ache, weaken and dip toward the marble surface. It infuriates her and delights her somehow at the same time, like being beat by a child at a game of trivia for the first time. They say you’ve met your match sometimes when they mean fall in love. Why do people say that?

She stashes her delight and her surprise, swivels at the hips to put up a fight, grinding her teeth, tossing her hair at one point when it itches the side of her forehead. But she’s going to lose and the minute she knows it, she knows Scully knows it too - it’s all over her face. An assassin whose just made a kill, a dominatrix with the heel of her shoe in someone’s clavicle. Upturned chin, downward gaze, a mouth parting as slow as Stella’s knuckles drop, come back just slightly, then drop again.

When it’s over, Scully looks at her lap, takes a breath she seems to hold onto. Her hand is still resting there on top of Stella’s in the victory position, though it feels like more of an apology now. Stella almost laughs - Scully is an even sorer winner than a loser. Their fingers tremble, sweat transferring in both directions. 

“Your arms were tired and your hand was clammy. From carrying it,” Scully says. “Wasn’t really a fair fight.”

Stella waits for Scully’s eyes to finally meet hers – finds them guilty as a thief’s, the eyes of someone who thinks she may have stolen something she can’t give back. 

“Well,” Stella says and steps around the edge of the counter to meet Scully. Her hand is still pinned limp at her side. “Now our arms are both tired so it’ll be even.”


End file.
